


Stay

by signifying_nothing



Category: K-pop, 방탄소년단 | Bangtan Boys | BTS
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-21
Updated: 2016-02-21
Packaged: 2018-05-22 12:27:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,165
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6079269
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/signifying_nothing/pseuds/signifying_nothing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>yoongi made hoseok stay the first time, and every time after.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stay

**Author's Note:**

> quick and dirty writing exercise.

Hoseok stood at the railing of the lanai, looking down over the city beneath the apartment he shared with Yoongi. The city lights coral warm and the wind heavy with an oncoming storm, he watched the blue-green pacific start to roil, heart in his throat. He leaned further into the railing.

Yoongi's hands were so small. They were so very small, and they caught Hoseok's sharp elbows, reached down to cup his forearms, his wrists, his hands. Yoongi couldn't look over Hoseok's shoulder but he could kiss the tattoo at the base of Hoseok's neck, could press his hands to Hoseok's belly and draw him back from where the storm was threatening.

“Hoseokah,” he said, his voice tender. “Hoseokah, come on. Come to bed, please?”

“Yeah,” Hoseok said, and Yoongi's entire body trembled with relief. Hoseok could feel it. He felt it every time Yoongi took a knife away from his stiff hands, every time he pulled him away from the railing, or slipped his fingers into the bathwater to find it warm instead of cold.

Hoseok watched as Yoongi undressed him, watched his small hands fumble buttons open, watched his twitching fingers pull at cloth. Yoongi's sickness was different than Hoseoks, but he was sick just the same. The two of them some mismatched mess, with Hoseok eternally looking up and forward, and Yoongi looking down.

“Hey,” Yoongi said, and Hoseok was glad that he spoke first. “Hey, Hoseokah.”

“Yeah,” he asked, looking down at Yoongi, dark-haired and small and pale as the moon, his little hands sliding up, cupping Hoseok's neck, pulling him down for a kiss that lasted too long and not long enough, fingers tangling in his hair and lips soft as they slipped together. “Hyung.”

“Hoseokah,” Yoongi whispered, and Hoseok lost himself in the wet sounds of kisses pressed to his neck, to his unshaven jaw and upper lip. “Hoseokah. I love you.”

“Hyung,” he said, and Yoongi pulled him down harder, down onto the bed, on top of him, between his skinny legs. “Ahhyung.” Yoongi was only wearing lounge pants as he so often did at home; the slatted plastic of the lanai doors started to ping and shift with the rain, the cement splattered slightly, and then in a thundering downpour. “Hyung.”

“Love me,” Yoongi whispered, and Hoseok closed his eyes, buried his face into Yoongi's pale neck and pushed down against him, gripped his wrists in a hard, fierce grip. It ground his bones together, it would bruise him, pretty little black and blues in rings like the one Hoseok liked to leave around his neck. When Hoseok wanted to hurt himself and hurt Yoongi instead.

They told him there was no way Yoongi would be there, when he got out. Maybe they were hoping it would be true. But Hoseok got out of rehab, got out of recovery and there was Yoongi, still in their apartment, pale and small and waiting for him.

The lack of medication in their apartment wasn't something he thought about anymore. The lack of alcohol, or Yoongi's cigarettes. Momentos of a time when Hoseok had no problem shoving Yoongi down into the tub and hitting his head against the ceramic, a time when Yoongi's tiny hands were just as likely to be bruising Hoseok as they were to be holding him.

 _Love me,_ Yoongi had whispered on his first night back and Hoseok tried, god he tried. He wanted to. He wanted to sob apologies and lay blame and he wanted to hate Yoongi, wanted to _destroy_ him. Now the words were a comfort, they were a reminder of what the two of them together had lost, were always working hard to get back.

The sound of rain grew louder, and Hoseok sat up, yanked Yoongi up from the bed and dragged him to the lanai doors. He pushed it open and dragged Yoongi out into the hot rain, pushed him down to the cement and cradled his head, kissed him as the lightning thrashed across the sky. The lanai was empty save for Yoongi's succulents; he laid there spread out on the cement with his legs open and Hoseok cradled between them, with his fingers tangling painfully into half-wet, half-dry hair as Hoseok pushed down the waistband of his sweatpants until they were around his thighs and rolled their tangled bodies to slam Yoongi's back into the steel bars, all that separated him from a twelve-story fall to his death in the rain.

“Hyung,” he breathed, and Yoongi whimpered, bit his lip and lifted his hips so one hand could fight the cloth down, could fight it off because skin, skin and rain and skin needed to be touching, because they needed to be in contact with one another, because it was torture to be apart, as it had always been. “Hyung.”

“Hoseokah,” Yoongi cupped his face and Hoseok rolled them, his back on the wet cement and Yoongi straddling over his hips. He watched Yoongi touch himself, watched him touch Hoseok; he watched those small, perfect hands grip and stroke in the darkness and the rain, heard Yoongi's voice cry out over the thunder and watched him throw his head back, skin wet, lips and eyelashes wet, beautiful as a seawitch and so much more dangerous.

Hoseok sat up to bite that beautiful neck, to sink his teeth into Yoongi's voice and hold it, to keep it for himself the way he kept Yoongi's small hands, crushed his fingers, had his own crushed in return. In the rain on the lanai Hoseok laid Yoongi down onto hot, wet cement and kissed him until his lips were swollen and his fingers moved easily through Hoseok's soaked hair.

“Hoseokah,” Yoongi whispered, and Hoseok pulled him up into his lap, pressed his back to the bars and the storm and the fall that once, he might have wanted to claim his life. “Hoseokah. I love you.” Yoongi's narrow eyes behind his dark bangs, the wetness on his cheeks and dripping from his earrings, those were his life now. Those were his.

“Hyung,” he said, and their wet lips slipped together, sweat and cum rained away as the cement dug into Yoongi's knees and the soles of Hoseok's feet. “You're mine. You're mine.” All that had brought Hoseok back from the dead was right there in front of him, skinny and small and strong, tiny hands that gripped his elbows, a small body that held his up. A soft, giving mouth and an even softer, more giving body that no one else would ever get to see.

The rain stayed warm, and Hoseok let his legs down slow. Yoongi leaned forward, hugged his shoulders and kissed his face; cheeks, eyelids and chin, unwilling to let go. He'd refused to be parted from Hoseok when all logic and truth said he should; he'd refused to let go, to quit, and every day Hoseok honored that choice by choosing to do the same—to stay.

 


End file.
